Cannot Be Unsaid
by madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Illya lets something slip. Gaby takes advantage.


**Title: Cannot Be Unsaid**

 **Rating: I know it's been a while but c'mon guys, what do I always write?**

 **Summary: Illya lets something slip. Gaby takes advantage.**

 **Disclaimer: Oh. Dear. God. I wish I owned something. Or someone.**

 **Warning: This is sentimental trash. I am sentimental trash. What has become of me.**

* * *

If there's anything Illya has learned since he first paired up with Cowboy and Gaby (Chop Shop Girl, as he still calls her with aggravated affection when she's being particularly stubborn), it's that just when everything seems to be going right, that's when the дерьмо is about to hit the fan. Or, alternately, if something can go wrong, then it will. Between the three of them, they have a combination of the worst and best luck in the world. Worst, because they get themselves into the worst possible situation. Best, because they somehow get themselves out of those situations.

Hopefully.

There's adrenaline pumping through his veins. There always is on missions. But now it's even worse, because it's coupled by the fear that gnaws in his stomach and crawls up his spine.

They got Gabriella.

He shouldn't have let her go. She's proven invaluable to them—as a getaway driver, as backup, as a cover—especially as an infiltrator, someone who can get in with their mark, whether that person is male or female. She can be the seductress, the sympathetic listener, the daughter figure, the new best friend—she's a born actress, and under Solo's tutelage she's only gotten better at subtle manipulations. But for how strong she is (and he does like his women strong), she's also so fragile. He remembers when she fell asleep on him and he carried her to bed, her arms and legs wrapped around him, and how light she felt. How small she seemed, her hands almost half the size of his. He knew in that moment that he would do anything to protect her.

And now he's failed her.

He was supposed to be listening in while she got a tour of their latest mark's yacht—a for-profit terrorist who has no issue selling his abilities to the highest bidder—but when things had started going wrong he hadn't gotten to her in time. He couldn't stop them from casting off and taking Gaby with them.

If they touch her, harm her in any way—

Cowboy acquired a motorboat almost immediately, in that annoyingly convenient way of his, hair blowing in the wind like a movie star instead of getting in his face like a normal person. They've caught up and are on the yacht, dispatching men as they go, but there's still no sign of Gaby.

He reaches the bottom floor, but all that's down here are boxes and extra supplies and other useless things, things that are only worth throwing around and breaking because if she's not on the yacht then _where is she_ —the only other option is the water, the deep, dark water—

Wait.

He backs up a few steps, and then walks over that section of floor again. It feels different under his feet, and the sound is different—thinner.

It's a false bottom.

He bends down and works his fingers along the floor, the tips catching against a thin line. He slides the pads along it, feeling the line, finds the catch—it opens.

Darkness greets him.

He digs in his pockets for his flashlight and shines it down. His heart is hammering in his throat and he suddenly fears what he will find down there. An image of her body, curled up and cold like an animal found by the side of the road, her face pale and her limbs stiff, flashes across his eyes and he almost can't breathe.

The beam of the flashlight dances across the hidden chamber. It's relatively small but sturdy enough, probably usually used to hold cargo. At first he sees nothing, but then the light catches on something and he freezes.

Her small, waifish face peers up at him, her pupils contracting against the harsh light. At first her features are hard, hostile, but then her sight adjusts and he knows the moment she recognizes him because her breath catches in her throat.

"Illya?"

He ignores the ladder completely, leaping down into the pit to land beside her. She wobbles to her feet, betraying her weakness—they did something to her, he knows it, and his fingers twitch at the thought. She practically falls into him, his arms coming up to catch her, sliding around so his hands are spanning her back. Her face is tipped up to his and there is such amazement in it, such gratitude, that it breaks his heart.

"You found me." The smile that slides across her face is luminous. Without waiting for a reply, she buries her face into his chest, her hands clutching at the collar of his shirt.

His heart skips a beat and he thinks nothing of pressing his lips to her hair. It seems so natural to hold her like this, to know that she is alive and safe in his arms. "Я бы разорвать мир на части, чтобы найти вас." The words slip out of him on an exhale. He doesn't know when he became so sentimental—soft, as Cowboy would say—but he can't find it within himself to mind. She's so prickly and enduring and strong, his little chop shop girl, that he feels honored to be allowed to see the moments where she needs help to keep it together.

Gaby pulls back a little, her face tipping up to look at his. His heart rate picks up again. There are no bellboys to interrupt them now. Her eyelashes flutter and he can feel his own eyelids closing, his face moving down towards hers like she is the source of all gravity, finally, finally feeling the brush of her lips against his—

"Peril! Peril, did you find—" Solo skids to a stop at the entrance and peers down at them, smiling. "Oh, there you are, Gaby!"

He could kill the cowboy, he really could.

* * *

Two visits to a medic, one debriefing, a train ride and several hours later, they're stationed at a new hotel in a new city, having earned the weekend off before they go on to their next assignment. Gaby and Solo are given the cover of brother and sister (which suits them, really—with their dark hair and snapping eyes and damned stubbornness, they could be siblings) which means they are given rooms side by side, while he is given one on the room above.

He stayed by her side throughout the day. He had a hand on her shoulder while the medic examined her, stood behind her chair during the debriefing, and sat next to her on the train—where she fell asleep, her head lolling onto his shoulder and her hand curling lightly over his knee. He'd put his arm around her and resisted the urge to smell her hair while Solo smirked from behind his paper. But now he finds himself a coward, staying in his room while she moves about just below him, getting ready for bed no doubt after the trying events of the day. He takes a shower, tries (and fails) to play chess with himself, he does sit ups and other exercises until he can hardly move, and even then his mind is still racing.

He could have lost her today. He can't handle that thought. It makes him want to break every piece of furniture in the room, to bring every one of those brutes on the yacht back to life just so he can kill them all over again—slowly, this time. He would give everything in him, and more, to keep her safe.

And yet the idea of telling her how he feels terrifies him.

He has no illusions about himself. He knows what he is. And even if he was a better man, a whole man, a man like Solo, he would still be Russian and she is still German. The fact that she doesn't hate him is a miracle in itself. But that doesn't mean that she feels anything for him. Those almost-kisses can be placed to drunkenness, the desire for comfort, lust—any number of things. They certainly don't mean that she feels as he does.

The knock at his door startles him out of his reverie. They're firm and impatient, and he assumes it's Cowboy at the door. Probably with an offer of a drink and a few smart remarks to go with it.

He yanks open the door, not in the mood for a drink or the teasing, but immediately has to lower his gaze because it's not Solo he's looking at.

It's Gaby.

She's wearing a nightgown, something silky and chic, and he knows immediately that Solo bought it for her because Solo is a meddling bastard and also likes to spoil Gaby rotten.

"May I come in?"

She doesn't even give him a chance to reply before she's brushing past him, her body pressing briefly up against his, and his body nearly betrays him. He closes the door after her, trying not to stare.

"I have a question." Her fingers are trailing over the ridge of the couch, the edge of the table, the wallpaper. He follows obediently, under her command and she hasn't even told him to do anything yet. The moment she senses him close to her she spins around and folds her arms in one smooth motion, the distance between them suddenly seeming much smaller now that she's facing him. He has the sudden swift impression that he's about to get grilled. "What did you say to me earlier?"

"What?"

"When you found me in the secret hold, you said something in Russian. What was it?"

He's been teaching her Russian on the fly and she knows a few phrases now, but not nearly enough to understand the promise he pressed into her scalp.

"It was nothing."

"Bullshit." She's been picking up English swear words from Solo, but she uses them a lot more than the American ever does.

"It was nothing you need concern yourself with."

She steps forward and now she's right in his space—one deep breath and their chests will brush together. All the moisture flees his mouth.

"Illya." She stands up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his with each word. "Tell me."

The little minx knows exactly what game she's playing, and he knows it's one he's going to lose. He lost it already, actually. He lost it when she took her hands in his and tried to get him to dance.

"I said," He swallows, the words catching in his throat with the depth of their meaning, "'I would tear the world apart to find you.'"

Her lips crash onto his the moment the last syllable is out of his mouth, her arms winding around his neck to hold him in place—as if he could leave her. She falls into him again, this time with intent rather than exhaustion, and he catches her around the waist. Her hands dance over his body, catch in his hair and his shirt, like she wants to map him out with her fingers. It's all he can do to hold her, to squeeze gently, careful not to break her. He's not sure he could break her, actually, this tiny piece of fire than can keep him from violence by simply holding his wrists in her callused hands.

Either she jumps, or he lifts her. He doesn't know which. It doesn't matter when her miles of legs are wrapped around his waist and he's got his hands on her. It's as if that action is the cue for movement, a sort of permission, because where before he could only hold on now he can't seem to stop his hands from roaming all over her. He wants to feel the hard places, the soft spots, and the jagged edges of her. He wants to know every inch of her skin, and he wants to see what his hands and mouth can do. She can take cars apart with skill, reach inside and pull out each individual piece, examining it and laying it out. Now he wants to do the same to her. He wants to take her apart and put her back together again.

He begins walking toward the bedroom while she tugs at his clothes. Never let it be said that Gaby is the patient type. His bed is definitely meant for one, not two, but it's still large enough that they can make it work. As he lays her down her legs tighten around him, holding him in place as her hips roll against his. He groans into her mouth and she laughs—he should have known she'd like to take him by surprise. She does it again and he can't help himself, moving his hips in response as he kisses her, trying to see how crazy he can make her. He feels crazy himself, and not in the usual way, his eyes filling with red and his hands shaking. He feels crazy like someone plugged him into an electrical outlet, crazy like he's been drowning and just came up for air.

Crazy like he's in love.

"Clothes," she orders, yanking at his shirt. "Illya, clothes."

It's almost painful for him to step away from her, if only for a moment, and he strips faster than he's ever done anything in his life. He nearly falls over trying to get his boot off, and she laughs fondly, the harsh edges of the sound rounded out, softened by affection.

Undressing on her part is much easier. One moment she's wearing her chic little nightgown—the next it's pooling on the floor and all he can see in front of him are miles and miles of skin. She's tan in some places and pale in others, most likely because of the sunny climates they've been stationed in. She looks incredibly petite, but he knows how strong she is (she did tackle him once, after all) so he doesn't let her size fool him. Whatever he gives her, she can take. She'll probably give him back twice as much, anyway.

He places his hands on either side of her hips, using them as leverage to lower himself over her. A final doubt nags at him, like a tightening in his gut, she can't understand what this means, she can't want him, not really, and he almost pulls back—

But she reads it in his eyes or perhaps his mind, he wouldn't put it past her to know his every thought, and her hands snake out to catch his face in her palms. Her eyes dart, back and forth, between his, and he can see them soften as they roam over the lines of his face.

He almost expects her to say something—it seems as though she will, with her lips parted like that—but instead she slides one of her hands to the back of his head, tangling in his hair as she guides him back down to her body. He latches onto her collarbone first. They'll have to buy her dresses with high collars for a little while, but it'll be worth it to see the look on Solo's face.

Or maybe not. He's not sure he could stand the look of smugness on the American's face when he sees that he was right about the two of them. He leaves off and moves his mouth lower—and that was definitely the right move, because above him Gaby gives a low moan and her fingers tighten in his hair. It's been a long time since he had relations with a woman, so long ago he can't remember the exact time frame, and he wouldn't call any of that 'lovemaking'. But he knows how to ride a bike, so to speak, and he struggles to remember every trick he's learned or heard discussed in late-night drinking sessions, all the better to elicit those delicious sounds from her.

She's especially receptive to her thighs being touched, he finds. He thinks he could worship her breasts for the rest of his life and she doesn't mind that either if her moans are any indication, but it's when he scrapes his teeth up her inner thigh that her breaths turn into pants and she lets out a reedy whine from the back of her throat. He digs the pads of his fingers into the meat of her thighs and spreads them wider, and she lets out a gasp, her nails scraping against his scalp as her grip tightens. And when he rubs his stubble right against the most sensitive skin, taking more time than he normally would to slide up her legs, she almost sobs. He thinks he'd like to come back to this—take his time one night and slowly unravel her until she's a shaking mess beneath him, but right now he simply doesn't have the patience.

There is one final moment of hesitation, though—or perhaps hesitation isn't the right word for it, because he doesn't stop moving as he slides back up her body. It's more like disbelief, the feeling in his chest something akin to when he's in a dream. He doesn't understand. She could have had anyone. She could have Solo, if she went for it—he's sure the cowboy wouldn't say no, and if he did then he's a better man than Illya will ever be. She could have landed a nice, solid German boy, the kind her uncle would have preferred. She could have found someone—perhaps another American—who would get her a proper visa and get her a nice safe life in the suburbs.

But instead she chose him.

She chose the man with calluses all over his hands, the man who breaks furniture in fits of rage, the man who sits silently and doesn't know how to say what he's feeling. She picked the man she was raised to hate.

He doesn't understand. She deserves so much more than what he can offer her. She deserves perfection. Instead she got jagged pieces and dark corners and rough edges.

She starts whispering his name, though, dragging her mouth along his chin, biting at his ear, his shoulder, saying it over and over again until she's screaming it. And he knows he's being ridiculous—it's just a name, after all—but he feels like she understands. It's like every time she says his name, she's choosing him all over again.

He's always had a habit of letting his senses overwhelm him. He's a visceral person, his five senses (and his heart) taking the lead over his head. It means his observations, his awareness of the world around him, are superb. It means that his instincts, his 'gut feeling', are honed like a weapon. But it also means that he doesn't always think things through (hence the chess).

Now, he feels as though he's drowning. Her skin slides against his, soft and sticky in places with sweat. Her gasps and moans are right in his ear, spurring him on. And the feeling of her legs under his fingers and the way she clenches around him, letting him in and then holding him like a vice—he thinks he must be losing his mind.

"Illya," she gasps, and he wants her to keep saying his name like that until the end of time. "Illya, please."

Yes, yes, of course, whatever she wants. He'll speed up, slow down, even stop if that's what she wants, although it would half kill him to do that right now when he's teetering on the brink of something terrible and sublime. Ever since she took his hands in hers (so small, like carved china compared to his bear paws), and got him to (sort of) dance with her, he'd do anything she ever asked of him.

The way she's digging her heels into his back and clawing at his shoulders, though, he's going to guess she wants him to keep going.

She's had her face tucked into the side of his neck, almost like when she passed out on top of him, but now he pulls back and adjusts his weight, allowing one of his hands to gently take her chin between his fingers. He tilts her head up just enough so that she can look into his eyes. He wants to see her. He wants to watch her come apart.

He lets go of her face but she keeps her head in that exact position, the flash in her eyes daring him to look away. He works his free hand between them, searching ( _what are you doing down there?_ )—and he knows he's found it when her entire body shudders and she has to struggle to keep her eyes open and locked onto his.

Soon he's also struggling to keep his eyes open. He knows, logically, that nothing in the room itself changes. All the sensations are occurring inside of him. But it still feels like something blindingly bright is approaching, something almost like the sun, burning him from the inside out, and it's all he can do not to shut his eyes in the face of it. It's worth it, though, because he gets to see her the moment her orgasm hits. Her jaw drops and she clenches even tighter around him, her nails digging into his skin and catching, her body jerking helplessly. He keeps his thumb rubbing little circles on her clit and her hips keep thrusting against him, to the point where he knows he's starting to over stimulate her and he withdraws. She makes an annoyed whining noise in the back of her throat and catches his face in her hands.

Now she watches him.

It hits him like a freight train and his vision swims. It feels good, almost too good from holding back, delaying so he could see her, and now all he can see are her eyes. They're large and entrapping, glittering but soft, and they engulf him. Everything else is the white noise of his climax.

Although he's ninety percent sure that he shouted her name.

He rolls as he falls, on instinct, afraid he might crush her with his sudden weight. She immediately crawls on top of him, brushing her nose against his like an inquisitive fox.

"The moment I can feel my legs again, we are repeating that," she informs him.

He's not quite sure he has the power of speech back, but he must get something out because she gives him a smile like quicksilver before tucking her head underneath his chin. They're going to have an awful mess to clean up afterwards—the sheets are probably ruined, there's a bit of a wet patch, their skin is sticking together from the sweat and they're both going to be hungry.

He can't wait.

"And Illya?" The words are murmured, almost slurred, into the skin of his chest.

"Mmm?"

" _Ich habe dich auch lieb_."

* * *

Meanwhile, in the suite next door, Solo pours himself a drink. After all, he did just win a bet with himself.

Although he does wish the walls were a bit thicker.

* * *

 **See? Sentimental trash. I've turned into a sap. Somebody shoot me (or better yet, get me a sequel film).**


End file.
